But the revenant merely lifted a hand and touched his face, lover’s gesture.
“Dust,” it said, which was its only word; daily Haught swept up the dust which infiltrated the house, and sifted it for the dust of magics which might linger in it, the remnant of the Globe of Power; with that dust he made a potion, and dutifully he infused it into this creature, stealing only a little for himself.
He was faithful in this. He feared not to be. He feared a great deal in these long months, did Haught, once and for a few not-forgotten moments, the master mage of Sanctuary; he suspected consequences which paralyzed him in doubt.
Because he had choices he dared none of them: his fear went that deep. It was his particular hell. “It’s all right,” he said now. “Go back to bed. Go to sleep.” As if he spoke to some child.
“Pretty,” it said. But it was not a child’s voice, or a child’s touch. It had found a new word. He shuddered and sought a way quietly to leave, to slip aside till it should sleep again. It had him trapped. “Pretty.” The voice was clear, as if some deeper timbre had been there and now was lost. As if part of the madness had dispersed. But not all.
He dared do nothing at all. Not to scream and not to run and not to do anything which might make it recall who it was. He could read minds, and he kept himself from this one with every barrier he could hold. What happened behind those eyes he did not want to know.
“Here,” he said, and tried to draw the arm down and lead it back to bed and rest. But it had as well be stone; and all hell was in that low and vocally masculine laugh.